


Undone

by Merit



Category: Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Gen, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:36:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5458355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merit/pseuds/Merit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clariel did not look back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [croissantkatie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/croissantkatie/gifts).



 The first year was the hardest; the Queen's soldiers at her heels, a cold winter, her knuckles almost frozen and her face hollow from hunger. She killed a rabbit as spring hit the North, weak yellow sun barely penetrating the white snow, and didn't even bother cooking it. The blood was hot on her tongue, the flesh tough but she tore at it, sinking back on her heels when she was done, blood rapidly cooling on her hands.

 Clariel hadn't spoken to anyone in a season now. Not since Marrel had died.

 When they had drifted away from Belisaere, Clariel not sparing the city a final glance, Clariel had eyed him out of the corner of her eye. He lowered his head slightly when she looked at him directly and Clariel felt rage curl up inside of her. Her hand drifted to her forehead, where her Charter mark had once been, before Free Magic had corrupted it.

 There was something about Marrel, behind the dull eyes, that she recognised. The Charter had never served him. It bound him to her. He would dog her footsteps until he withered and died in the North, far from Belisaere.

 Clariel had ordered him to make a landing, near the edge of the kingdom, as far as she could tell. The sand hadn't felt that different under her feet. Marrel had stayed in the boat, watching her carefully.

 She had pushed the boat back into the sea, murmured a command to Marrel to follow the tides, Charter spelled to be loyal. Charter compelled when she had been exiled for daring Free Magic.

 There had been a storm that night. Great heaving waves that had smashed against the beach, the sky lit up with flashes of lightning. Clariel had watched the boat struggle against the water, the waves driving it higher, until lightning had struck the ocean. Marrel had seemed frozen, arms outstretched, before the waves had swallowed him and the boat disappeared.

 Clariel had turned away from the ocean and ventured into the forest, the rain icy on the back of her neck, but she was finally free.

 She had barely even considered the events in Belisaere, other than overriding concern to stay away from the city and people. There was the occasional woodsman or woman out here, living in lonely cottages hugging ancient trees or sheer cliff faces. Clariel had watched and waited, and when one cottage was left unattended snuck in and stole three apples, wizened by the winter. She had eaten them all, core and all, guilt a fleeting emotion in a land with no Borderers to enforce the Kingdom’s laws.

 She hadn't stopped thinking about Free Magic.

 

* * *

 

When spring broke and the snow melted in great torrents, the mountain peaks still swathed in white, Clariel went further North. She remembered Belatiel’s words, had clutched them close to her heart as she fled Belisaere. Mogget’s words, however, were engraved on her heart: _Charter Magic fades beyond the Rift, but there is Free Magic there_.

 The longing for power gnawed at her. Her skin itched as she remembered the rush of power, the tang of Free Magic, how wonderful she had felt when she had ordered the Free Magic creatures. It had been so _easy_ , she recalled, life and death a whisper away. Free Magic filling her with power that _no one_ could deny.

Clariel shuddered, the desire almost overwhelming her. It was tempting, so tempting this far north, surely she had to be close to he Rift. The urge grew within her, rage a crescendo and she was sharply reminded of her mother. They had fought the same battles to contain their anger but her mother had died flinging Charter spells. Her fingers twitched and Clariel felt for her Charter mark, feeling just scarred flesh. It could have been because she so far away from a Charter Stone, she thought, the skin feeling dull and dry under fingers.

 The Kingdom didn’t end suddenly. The Great Forest grew wilder without the Queen’s Borderers to subdue and tame it, turning into something lovely and free. It hardly seemed possible she had wanted to be a Borderer, when a forest, when _she_ , could be so much more.

 It was quiet, in the way only a forest could be, birds and insects and the rustling of leaves, but something had changed. Clariel knew that she was no longer in the Great Forest, no longer in the Kingdom. She was free, in the way that Tathiel, the mythic lost princess locked up in Belisaere, could never hope to be. It was hard to feel sorry for Tathiel, though. She wanted Clariel dead, and Clariel didn’t want to die.

 Clariel breathed in deep, the forest life bursting into life around her, and smiled.

 Then the first person she had met since coming to the North tried to kill her

 He didn't succeed. He had attacked her from behind – cowardly, she thought, another part of her whispered that it was smart, reducing danger – mostly she roared with rage, the anger she had tried so desperately to stem, breaking free. The knife in his hand made a glancing blow and Clariel grunted, punching the man in the throat with her uninjured hand. She reached for her dagger at her side, the blade practically springing into her hand.

She slashed at him, and he jumped back, stumbling as he tripped over a branch, almost falling backwards. She gritted her teeth, a mockery of her earlier smile, and her dagger tore through his shirt. There was instantly a red line across pale flesh, like the under belly of a dead fish. The man whimpered and the dagger was suddenly a thousand weight in Clariel's hand, her own breath whistling in her ears. The rage inside her felt insurmountable but.

 Clairel remembered how her mother had looked the last time she saw her. Jaciel had bit back her fury on the final carriage ride and when they were attacked, her mother had cast Free Magic spells with great precision, her power backed by her great rage. Jaciel had saved Clariel, sent her away when Jaciel knew she would be facing her death alone and with her husband already dead. A berserker's fury could be a powerful weapon if it could be controlled.

 This man was pathetic. Not worth her rage.

 Clariel took a deep breath and backed away from the man, keeping a careful eye on him.

 "You shouldn't have attacked me,” she said, grinding out the words, the rage still nestled under her tongue. He shook his head rather desperately. Clariel regarded him carefully. He was scrappily dressed, notwithstanding her recent tailoring, ribs showing through the tear. “Go,” she hissed, raising the dagger up to her face. He nodded and vanished into the forest. Clariel took a deep breath and leaned against a thick trunk of a tree.

 She had wanted to throw the knife in his back. Turn his attack on her and make him pay. It had taken every ounce of strength in her to hold, to listen to her heart beat, let her breath slow. The rage left slowly, leaving her feeling slow and tired. She rocked her head forward, letting her hair fall into her face.

 She didn't trust anyone with a Charter mark. Clariel spun the dagger high, a flash of silver and red blood, catching it easily. She _couldn't_. Belatiel had said Tathiel would send people after her. And weren't things changing? A long lost princess returning, a new Abhorsen and – her, fleeing the city. Unfashionable Charter might come back again.

 But that man who had attacked her, he didn't have a Charter mark. It would be best to trust no one, she decided. No one really had her best interests at heart, other than herself. They had wanted her to stay in Belisaere, they had wanted her to take up a blade or something, _anything_ to prove her blood.

 Clariel grimaced as she shifted, the blood from the brief hit, already drying uncomfortably on her skin. The wound ached but Clariel was more concerned about the smell of her blood, becoming prey in a forest that was still largely unfamiliar to her. She groaned lightly as she stood, hand on her injury and headed to the nearest stream to wash away the blood.

 

* * *

 

 She regretted the old woman's death at first.

 Clariel had watched her for days. The woman was near _death_. Something in her blood told her, Clariel thought with a wry twist to her mouth, because hadn't her blood only hindered her? It had kept her chained in Belisaere, at the Abhorsen's House when she had wanted to be free.

 She was free now, she thought, nails digging into the flesh of her palms. Hunger gnawed at her stomach and her throat was dry. Clariel shook her head, shaking the thought away, desperately missing the taste of Free Magic on her lips. She hungered, her stomach aching, her nerves missing the spark of Free Magic. The old woman had a hut – that could be _hers_ , Clariel thought.

 The old woman, twigs in her grey hair, muttering to herself, pausing after every other step. Her hut was in dire need of repair. And one day the old woman stopped, look around herself with a surprised expression on her face and dropped to the ground.

 Perhaps she could have survived if Clariel had helped her in the past few days. Perhaps she could have survived if Clariel hadn't waited. But. The hunger had built to a crescendo inside of Clariel. She couldn't wait for kindness. Something had to be fed.

 Clariel waited until it was almost dusk and then entered the hut, carefully walking around the dead woman's body, her death sour in the air. She devoured the crust of bread left on the table, brushing the mould off the cheese without a second thought and then fell asleep instantly on the old bed, barely more than a bundle of rags.

 The old woman's body was there in the morning though worse for wear. Clariel had always seen bodies burnt until now. As a child Clariel had considered it no more than a quaint tradition. Who ever heard of a necromancer raising the Dead these days? A Charter mage had always set the fire going, even if it was helped by bundles of sticks. Clariel felt for Charter mark again, wincing when she only felt the X there. So far away from a Charter Stone, she probably wouldn't even be able to light a fire, Charter mark or not.

 She buried the body – desecrated it first, her mother's disapproval heavy in the air despite her being long dead. Just in case, a voice whispered in her head which Clariel tried to ignore.

 Still. Just in case.

 

* * *

 

 Seasons passed. The winter came earlier here, so high North, and more north to travel. She traced her scar, her finger tapping impatiently against the flesh.

 Clariel always wore the mask when she travelled now. The scattered hamlets and tiny villages, on the edge of the Kingdom and the northern warlords and petty kings, were an unjudgmental lot. She saw more than a few thief brand marks, one handed women and so what was she? Just another one who had been marked in some terrible way. They traded her furs for grains and there was no idle talk. She preferred it this way.

 In the long winters she rarely saw another person. She hadn't even seen her own face in months. On the cusp of one spring, when a few flowers were daring to bloom, she heard voices. She hid immediately, because they were bold and sounded like home. She longed for home sometimes. She quashed the feeling immediately. She could never return to the kingdom. Tathiel had promised that with a death sentence.

 They wore the queen's uniform. Clariel shook her head scornfully, imagining Tathiel ordering them north, when Clariel had never even wanted to go to Belisaere, never wanted it at all.

 In the forest, despite their too loud voices, too used to the chatter and bustle of Belisaere, they walked carefully, eyes on the ground and sky, hands on their weapons. But they weren't Clariel and they didn't notice her stalking them, following them to the closest thing that could be called a town this far north. It wasn't the Kingdom and the faces were hostile when the people noticed the uniform, the crown emblazoned on their shoulders.

 She couldn't tell what they asked, not when she would risk herself, going any closer. But they left frustrated, hands on their swords tense, fingers tight on their horses reins. Refused a night in what passed for an inn here, too, she noted with a vicious grin on her face.

 They spent three more days searching the forest, till there was nothing but nerves grinding in Clariel's stomach, as she bit her lower lip raw. Her hand was on her knife, nothing compared to their swords. The moon, half full, disappearing more each night, cast a half light on everything, stretching shadows and grins.

 One of them, at least, was a Charter mage. Short bristly hair and Charter marks leaping out of her fingers, as she lit a fire one night. Clariel felt betrayed for one moment, hand creeping to her old Charter mark. It wasn't too far north, she thought. She wasn't north enough, if the queen's soldiers were here, if the queen's soldiers were casting Charter spells.

 The queen's soldiers didn't go further north. It was rougher there and unless Tathiel wanted to start a war, it wouldn't be wise to go further north.

 Clariel left for the North when the moon was empty in the sky.

 

* * *

 

 In the end, it was easier than she had imagined.

 Free Magic creatures roamed the North and the Charter was utterly absent. The people carved their teeth into spikes. There was a strange sense of order, chaos and destruction reigning supreme. Clariel saw a pitched battle, even if there was only a score or so of fighters on each side, the survivors screaming their victory into the long day, their voices harsh with Free Magic. Up here the sun only set for a few hours, before rising again and chasing the shadows.

 The Dead were sleeping, Clariel heard. The Dead walked when the sun disappeared and necromancers stole the living for their pleasure.

 People hissed when they saw her, furs to trade or not. It was a challenge and Clariel's shoulders rose, her lips curled in a snarl behind her mask. They thought to defeat her? A voice in her head bellowed, thick with outrage. She stole, instead, which seemed to be the custom this far north as well.

 She entered the hall of a queen, her crown the twined finger bones of the ones she had slaughtered before her. The woman watched her haughtily, eyes ravaging, seeking a weakness, a threat. In the end, she turned her head away. Beside the queen, there was a necromancer, a great set of bells slung across her chest. Clariel eyed her hungrily.

 The necromancer laughed when she saw Clariel, her grey lips revealing purple gums. Her face was young, but there were great lines riven into her flesh. Grey hair, but full and thick as any young maiden. The necromancer traced the largest bell, fingers contorting around it, her smile a hook. Clariel couldn't look away.

 “They'll chase you,” she said, her voice a croak that all quietened to listen, her eyes blue and rimmed with blood. “They'll chase you to the Death they master!”

 Clariel shrugged. Wasn't it a queen chasing her? Her gaze flicked to the bone crowned queen. She ran her fingers along the edge of her mask – and was it slipping closer, till it seemed more like flesh? She turned, the people's faces all twisting into one, bright eyes and long mouths.

 “That's the path of all walkers,” the necromancer finished, her hand resting on Astarael.

 Clariel hungered then. She hungered for a bell to silence the wretched woman. The will, the strength built up inside her until she felt like she could wrestle the bells from the necromancer with a twist her of her fingers. With a shudder, she fled, her stomach cold.

 The nights started to stretch and Clariel realised with a shiver that if she didn't find some sort of shelter, she was going to freeze to death. Preferable to a death not her own, she thought, wrapping her arms around herself. She hungered and couldn't quite pinpoint the source.

 Perhaps the people of the north thought she was weak, huddled there by herself, perhaps they thought she was dying. She heard them move, ragged forms, threadbare clothes, the clink of a sword. They hungered.

 She hungered too. The fury built within her, till her vision was hazed with red. How _dare_ they? She thought, hands clenching, nails tearing into her flesh. Clariel had only wanted to be left alone and _they_ – her parents, Bel, Tathiel, even the people lurking in the shadows – wouldn't let her.

 They launched themselves at her and Clariel's hand was already at her dagger, the rage consuming her.

 

* * *

 

 The men shouldn't have attacked her. Clariel sunk to her knees, blood soaked under her nails, the mask heavy on her face. The rest had fled and despite the exhaustion plaguing her bones, Clariel had to clamp down on the urge to follow them, hunt them, kill them.

 The North was wild, she had been told that as a child. That up North there were wildmen and women, who didn't bow to the crown. They bowed to more wicked powers, someone had said and Clariel wracked her memories but couldn't remember who had said that.

The wind swept past her, the blood drying cold on her hands. Clariel blinked away sweat. She couldn't remember the last time she had taken off the mask. She breathed out heavily, her voice raspy against the bronze. 

The bodies of the men – women too, she noted tiredly – lay scattered around her. She kicked an arm further away from her and the body sighed. Just the wind, she told herself, because no one could have survived the slash to their throat that she had delivered, near severing their spine. But the night was otherwise quiet. Clariel shifted, rapidly taking in the movement just beyond the trees. Her hand clenched on her bloody knife.

 The Free Magic creatures shouldn't have attacked her either.

 They slinked out of the dark trees, shadows in the half-light cast by distant stars and a moon hiding her face. Two of them, slithering around each other. She heard them first, the rage dampened by exhaustion, her arms heavy. Her fingers slipped on her dagger, wet with blood and the insides of the man in front of her, his eyes glassy.

 She took a hold of them both at once, crushing their wills in an instant. They were weak, lower order Free Magic creatures. They had escaped North, feeding on abandoned infants and the people left for dead but they filled Clariel with power she hadn't glimpsed since Belisaere when her Charter mark had cracked.

 “You will obey me now,” she said, her voice crackling with Free Magic. She watched lightning flash between her fingers, bright and unearthly. The lightning leapt out of her fingers, onto grass dried from the short summer. She fled the bodies – oh what a waste, she would think in the future – the flames creeping up behind her, violet and stinking of acrid Free Magic.

 The Free Magic creatures she had compelled followed her, their heads slung low and hunger in their eyes.

 

* * *

 

 Clariel was fairly disappointed with the two of them. One was fair, Eziel and the other dark, Yta and they were nothing like the Free Magic she had freed in the kingdom. Their bodies were weak and while their Free Magic nature filled her with power she hadn't felt for years, it was nothing, just a candle against the sun, compared to the others.

 “There are more powerful ones up North, Mistress,” Eziel whispered, a strange acidic green slime dripping out of his mouth. “Far from the Charter, far from the _Abhorsens_ ,” he finished with a hiss.

 “And south, when the king is weak and the Abhorsen turns his face away, we go south,” Yta added helpfully, her crest low whenever she spoke to Clariel. “There are not as many as there used to be,” she said regretfully.

 They would both murder her if they could, Clariel knew. But her will was too powerful, she hardly had to spare a thought and their minds flailed and submitted before her. Clariel smiled, even though she knew they could not see behind her mask. The night after the fire, she had ravaged their minds, seeking resistance. They had broken before her. They were lesser, she thought. Hadn't she always been told that.

 “There's a queen now,” Clariel said quietly, rocking back on her heels. “She wants me dead,” she paused, looking at the two creatures. She could set them on one another and they would fight to victory, fearing death, fearing her judgement. “And the Abhorsen, well, there's a new one too.”

 They waited.

 “We'll go North.”

 

* * *

 

Swiftly, more swiftly than she had thought possible, the leaves had turned orange. Clariel and her Free Magic creatures left those behind. Further North there were no trees, only vast whiteness, distant peaks a smudge of grey on the skyline.

 

At night she experimented with Free Magic, the power filling with her such great strength that she shivered at the strength of it. Up here, far past the Charter, there seemed nothing that could stop her. Greedily, she captured a few other Free Magic creatures.

 In a sleigh more built from Free Magic, twisted twigs wrapped around shadow, Clariel galloped across the snow, further and further North until it seemed like the kingdom had been a dream. The snow burst up into great flurries, melting suddenly when it met the skin of the Free Magic creatures, the dull metal of Clariel's face. The sting, the sour acrid taste of Free Magic had long settled in Clariel's throat. The sky lit up with strange lights and Clariel reached up with a cry, her own Free Magic joining the great flashes in the sky.

 The mask was icy on her face but Clariel barely noticed it. It was only on some mornings, the sun only showing for a moment before withering in the sky, that she traced her cheek – no, the bronze – and remembered that there was supposed to be flesh under there.

 There was a snatch of grief, a slight uneasiness in her stomach. The cold was absolute, but swathed in Free Magic, Clariel hadn't even shivered. She breathed out, her warm breath seeping through her mask, a rush of white around her face. She stood still and then shook her head. There was a death sentence on her head and Clariel had not intention of releasing her hold on life _yet_.

 The nights were long and filled with eerie cries, ending in choked off sobs. She found the curled up remains of bodies sometimes, their faces grey and frozen, and felt her fingers twitch. She ran her hand down her chest, imagining bells there.

 Belatiel was the Abhorsen, she remembered. Her fingers turned into a fist and behind her mask, Clariel bit her lip. He would not approve of all this, she thought with a wry grin, not that anyone could see. Her parents, her mother, would have been horrified. Her mother would have probably tried to stop her, kill her if necessary.

 Clariel turned her gaze away from the lights in the sky, away from the pull of Free Magic that had dug into her bones and turned south. It lurched up at her and suddenly the North didn't seem far enough.

 Her Free Magic creatures leaned closer, they had sensed her indecision. She quashed it and extended her will. Free Magic was about strength of will, the power of her mind, and Clariel wasn't going to be stopped _now_.

 “We have spent long enough in the north,” she declared.

 

* * *

 

 The bells were deep in the Kingdom, she thought, thrumming her fingers along her arm. She could almost hear chimes in her head; the sorrowful sound of Astarael, the sharpness of Kibeth. And she was fairly certain that Tathiel had never rescinded her death sentence. Clariel traced the edge of her mask, her skin feeling colder than ice. The mask would not be appreciated in the Kingdom and nor could she parade around with a broken Charter mark.

 “We'll travel at night,” she said abruptly. They practically flew across the snow – almost, Clariel mouthed, thinking of dragons. If she had stayed in Belisaere, in the Abhorsen's House, she would have never experienced such wonder. And they would take it all away from her again, she thought darkly. If they could, they would. If she let them, they would. She wouldn't let them.

 At the nebulous border between the North and the Kingdom, a barrier that was more thought, than a wall, Clariel paused. The air seemed different in the Kingdom, rushing and pausing before flying through the leaves of the north. She hadn't noticed it before.

 She had heard tales of the Wall. The Wallmakers had built it and vanished in their creation, it was a story that seemed to ring twice in her head, like a bell being rung twice. Her blood seemed to slow, as Clariel took a deep breath and crossed into the Kingdom.

 But there was no cry, no attack and she made quick travel through the Great Forest that she had once wanted to pledge her life to protect. That night she paused by a quick running creek, her Free Magic creatures crowding behind her. Her blood was running faster now, a quick of fear in her veins.

 She sacrificed half of her Free Magic creatures that night, the moon a distant light through the dappled trees. She had too many and they would be too much of a threat. Their deaths filled her with a particular power and Clariel felt even stronger. Her dagger was dark with their blood and it took all of her great will to hold herself back, to hold herself from killing them all.

 “That's enough,” she rasped, her voice crackling with Free Magic. She took off her – _she took of her mask_ – and spat, and it burnt her lips. Clariel raised a hand, her skin raw and smelling faintly of blood. She stumbled over to the stream, hissing at the Free Magic creatures to stay away, and stared at her reflection.

 Here, with the moon only slipping through the cracks in the forest, her face was more shadow than flesh. Clariel shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself, the mask dropping to her feet.

 It was near dawn when she picked up the mask and carefully placed it over her face.

 It fit perfectly and Clariel did not weep.

 

* * *

 

 She travelled at night, avoiding villages and towns, raiding an isolated farmstead because, because she hadn't tasted fresh bread in _years_. She had to force it down her throat and it tasted like nothing she had remembered.

 That night she clutched a Free Magic creature, something small with a bright crest, close to her chest and breathed in. The power filled her slow, it was a weak creature, and had only survived because it had been too small when the Charter had been formed.

 One day, with the noon sun high in the sky, she woke to the clatter of horses and the laughter of humans. She crawled through the undergrowth, biting her lip when she saw the Royal Guards, their Charter marks almost blinding. She squinted, leaning away. They had never seemed this bright before.

 She only half listened to their conversation, starting when they mentioned 'good old queen Tathiel.' She rolled the idea in her head, Tathiel hadn't been that much older than her, but she supposed the guards did look awfully young. She hadn't noticed any wrinkles in that small stream but it had been dark and her face had been – _shadow and bone_ – hard to see.

 The guards must have only paused for lunch, because it wasn't that long before they had packed up, mounted their horses and disappeared into the curve of the read. After a time, Clariel wriggled out of the bushes, brushing off leaves and dirt and surveyed the ground, kicked up earth when it had been dislodged.

 She hadn't spoken to anyone from the kingdom for years. She squatted in the first, picking up a scrap of fabric a guard had left behind. And she hardly counted the criminals and degenerates that had fled north, harried by the justice of the crown. She let the cloth slip through her fingers and rose to her feet. And froze.

 A guard stood in front of her.

 

* * *

 

 In the hindsight of the future, when the decades had been lost and Clariel no longer troubled to keep count, she would shake her head at the memory. She had been foolish in killing the guard.

 It had been like a beacon announcing her presence, horns trumpeting her name, when she had wanted to be a shadow.

 He had died quickly, at least. The dagger in his gut, face half frozen in surprise, Free Magic harsh on her tongue as she bound his throat. He gagged, desperately trying to breathe. She stepped away, tearing the dagger out of his body and turned away, fleeing into the forest. She knew the precise moment he died, the sense of death almost making her trip. Clariel spared a glance behind her, the man's body already long disappeared between the trees but _violent deaths would linger_ , she thought. She would be able to return this spot as if a lodestone guided her.

 It was afternoon still, but she fled, making great care to hide her footprints and her passage through the trees. She emerged near a field and walked along it, often turning, the mask hot on her face, her breath pushing back on her cheeks. She heard riders approach once and quickly fled into a field, squatting amongst the wheat. Sweat ran down her neck, wheat tickling her skin and the horses thundering as they approached. She tensed as they neared her, hand on dagger, ready to call on her Free Magic creatures if she needed.

 What? Did they think they could escape her? She had bonded them to her in the distant North and they couldn't escape her now, even if she was deep in the Kingdom. She wasn't even a league away. She could grasp them and end their pitiful lives in an instant. Theirs was a bond that would only break with death.

 But the riders passed and Clariel breathed out. She wouldn't have to call her creatures yet. It was well after dusk when she emerged, shaking off dust and dirt. She called to her creatures and started walking down the road. The moon was high in the sky when they caught up with.

 Clariel lashed out immediately, striking three of them with a vicious blow that was more the force of her will than any fist.

 They cried out and she hissed at them for silence. They cowered before her, begging pathetically and Clariel felt the rage curl up inside her. She swallowed it down, the mask hot her face.

 “You think you could leave me? That I would forget you existed?” She murmured, rage haunting her words. “You are mine until I say so. You will obey me!” And she forced her will of them, until they were prostrated in front of her.

 She killed two of them there and continued onwards.

 

* * *

 

 When Clariel put her hand on the bells, she smiled, bright and furious behind the mask. Power surged through and she dug her toes into her boots. This was Free Magic and Death. She threw her back and laughed.

 She felt she was truly coming into her blood now.

 And far away, in a house on an island, a cat curled upon a pillow stretched and smiled. Mogget opened his eyes, bright green against white fur, teeth even whiter.

 “Oh Clariel,” he whispered, nastiness apparent in every syllable, “Well _done_!”

 Belatiel had also looked up, his gaze turned north, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

 “Oh Clariel,” he mirrored, voice heavy with sorrow, “What have you done now?”

 

* * *

 

 She returned to the North with the hounds of the Queen and her agents hot on her heels. Her breath was ragged when she crossed into the North, her stomach curiously cold. She hadn't eaten for days, she realised and sank against a tree. Even after the thought, her stomach didn't roil impatiently. Clariel bit her lip and dug into her bag. Her face might be recognisable but the mask more so. She placed it on her face and sighed heavily. It was cool against her skin, a great relief after the heated days in the kingdom.

 Summer had come to an end while she was south. The leaves were a riot of reds, oranges and yellows, a fire above her head. She hissed and the air that left her lungs was hot with the acridic taste of Free Magic.

 After a long moment, Clariel dug the bells out of her bag. She had hardly dared to touch them in the Kingdom, but their presence, their power had been a constant presence at the back of her mind.

 If she was caught. If she was subdued. They would kill her with barely a second thought. It had spurred her faster, deeper into the northern reaches of the Kingdom.

 “You did this,” she murmured, tracing the smallest bell fondly. “You made me do this. Because you wanted me to be...” she paused, biting her lip. “Everything that you wanted. Not me.”

 She felt complete when she put the bells on. They didn't rattle, but she still moved cautiously. It took her a few hours to realise where she was going and when she did, she smiled.

 Hadn't she left the body there just in case?

 The flesh would have decayed but the bones would remain.

 Clariel was excited.

 

* * *

 

 There was a delicate hierarchy in the north. Necromancers, Free Magic sorcerers, disreputable seers and the ever changing warlords and petty kings. Power reigned supreme and justice was considered a concept for the soft south and their controlling Charter.

 Certain types had recognised Clariel before she had left for the kingdom again. Oh not for her as an individual but for her blood. Royal and Abhorsen. She supposed there was probably a Clayr ancestor too, maybe even a Wallmaker if she stretched far back enough. She was surprised she hadn't been murdered for her blood alone.

 She would have fought, of course. Killed a few. But there were few Free Magic sorcerers and necromancers in the North and they were scattered amongst the snow and ice, seldom meeting.

 It was near a full moon when Clariel defeated her first rival. Until the battle, she hadn't considered the Free Magic sorcerer a rival, but the man had declared it such. Behind him loomed several Free Magic creatures that Clariel did not recognise. She recognised their power and the hold the man had on them.

 It was easy enough to break him and break his hold on them. Free, they feasted and then after the sorcerer was no more than a bloody stain on the earth, they looked up at her and waited.

 She could have commanded them. Instead she let them go and they spread rumours, whispers of the mask wearing necromancer.

 She was terrifying and powerful.

 

* * *

 

 Her enemies died and she did not. It pained her slightly, to think of Bel as an enemy. He had freed her, sent her North but he would have disapproved every action there after. From his reputation, she hardly doubted that he would have rescinded his offer as an older, wise man. Would he have killed her? Drawn a knife across her throat? Or merely wait for the water to push her past the final Gate?

 It bit into her. They had all wanted to _control_ her.

 He died and Clariel only found out months later, in the court of a warlord, a cave thick with smoke. There were unforeseen perils of having a truly shocking reputation, she thought. The whispers from the ground took much longer to reach her ears. He had died. In his bed, which wasn't terribly unusual for Abhorsens of the last century or two. Surrounded by his wife and the rest of his family. A daughter, his youngest, was Abhorsen now. Clariel catalogued her name away, another enemy, just in case.

 Tathiel died in battle, her helm heavy on her grey hair. Clariel heard of her death in a dank tavern, on the edge of the border between the kingdom and the North. The strangers smelled like blood, their jackets drawn tightly across their chests, their faces grey with exhaustion. They had stared at the bells on her chest for a moment, fear darkening their brows, before looking away. They had lost, she had gathered. But Tathiel had died.

 Clariel allowed a smile behind her mask.

 They had never met. But Tathiel's disappearance and her return had marked Clariel's life. Her old Charter mark, dark with age, throbbed for a moment. Clariel shrugged off the feeling and called for another drink, Free Magic on her lips to hasten the barmaid.

 Had the Clayr Seen this? They were cousins, of sorts, but they had kept Tathiel hidden for more than a decade. Had they _Seen_.

 A hundred years passed and Clariel paused. All those she had known, all those who had known her were dead. She supposed Mogget might be an exception. But tucked away in Abhorsen's House, she doubted they would speak again unless he managed to fool another Abhorsen's get into freeing him.

 Perhaps she would even be alive then.

 

* * *

 

 She had happened on them by chance. She sometimes regretted a Free Magic sorcerer’s reputation. It could make getting a good meal, on one of the few occasions that Clariel felt like eating, quite the chore. People scattered, became silent, as if she would kill them. She would, of course, kill them. But it would be unusual if it was for a meal. Clariel had demanded more meals of late than paid for them.

 The man was white eyed and white haired, dark lines around his mouth. He muttered something and Clariel cocked her head and then laughed.

 Claw? No. That wouldn't do. A distinction needed to be made.

 “You say I am Chlorr of the Mask?” She murmured, voice deep and throaty. The man, the other people clustered around him, all nodded and bowed before her. Clariel surveyed them critically. Like most of the North they were stick thin, thieves brands more common than not. Tathiel had died and the search for her had largely died with her. She supposed Clariel was half a written line somewhere, something a historian would puzzle over for a moment or two, trying to place someone of her blood in the chaos of the battle. There was no more written about her, Clariel thought.

 She had died then. Clariel had died then.

 She was Chlorr.

 To the people of the North. To the kingdom. Maybe even the Abhorsens now, time dulled memories, books faded. And she was certain Mogget wouldn't feel inspired to remind them that she existed. She was a great failure of theirs, but she could also be their doom. At least that was she suspected he hoped. She remembered the leashed power in his eyes now and shuddered.

 She left them cowering. Alive for now. The North was harsh, the winters cold, the ice went down to your bones. She left them as Chlorr.

 

* * *

 

 The great wreck of the land was before her, the Abhosen's House more a presence in the back of her mind than any great threat. Still, she stroked her bells, resting on Saraneth and Mosrael before letting her hand falling away. Hillfair was no more. Chlorr had paid attention to the going ons of the kingdom and the Abhorsens – how could she not, when they both wanted her dead?

 The Abhorsen's line had narrowed in the centuries. The blood spread thin across the kingdom. Hillfair had all but been abandoned, collapsed buildings, stone scavenged by nearby villagers. It pleased her now as it had pleased her then when the first buildings had been abandoned, dark eyed cousins dying and leaving fewer descendants.

 The Abhorsen had retreated to his House – to Mogget and his lying tongue, Chlorr thought, more amused than offended by the lies that Mogget had told her centuries ago. Chained as he was, she would have done exactly the same thing. Though, Chlorr had no intention of ever freeing him. She had learned much in her years, in the North and in chaos after the Queen had been murdered. She had an inkling of what he was and it was beyond her ken.

 Still. Kerrigor had been a surprise. The rot had come from within. There was a wry twist of her mouth, behind her mask, amusement shaking her shoulders.

 She half suspected the Clayr were fakes, but knew it was irrational, foolhardy to proceed down that path. They were imbued with the blood, just as she was, and could be quite the dangerous opponent. When they could turn their Sight away from their water and ice and out into the kingdom.

 Chlorr turned her gaze south, where the Wall was, where it had been for centuries before she had been born. It was dangerous territory now. Chlorr had been told, by a muttering woman, her mind half elsewhere, where Chlorr didn't inquire, that the Dead were plentiful and Charter mages were scarce. More Charter Stones broken in two, a cusp between life and death.

 Half the Free Magic sorcerers she had known had been twisted to Kerrigor's will or slaughtered. It hadn't concerned her. Chlorr felt little sympathy for the fools who thought they could battle a greater mind, a greater will than their own. They had been subsumed. If he thought he could best her, well. Chlorr's hand went back to her bells.

 It would be his mistake.

 

* * *

 

 

 The seer's gaze glided over Chlorr, her blue eyes widening slightly as if she almost recognised Chlorr. There was a sad slant to her mouth, hardly noticeable if Chlorr hadn't been looking out for it. Chlorr rocked back on her heels, ignoring the strident tones of one of the frozen North's petty warlord kings – he would be dead within a year, she thought absently, and examined the seer. She wore a gauzy veil over her golden hair, over the Charter mark she had to be hiding, but there was no mistaking it; she was a Clayr.

 Chlorr had only seen a score or so of Clayr over her life time, mostly from a distance. They rarely left the Glacier and were never seen this far North. She had watched them patrol their icy home, green goggles glinting in the harsh sun. Chlorr hadn't spoken to one since Belisaere and that was – she pressed her lips together. That was more than a lifetime ago.

 The seer was powerful though, Chlorr could almost taste the Charter around her, always so staid and controlling compared to Free Magic. Chlorr ran her hand up and down her bells, almost absent-mindedly, a caress over Saraneth and the seer's face twitched. Chlorr hid a smile behind her mask. She supposed the seer had her own reasons, Chlorr mused, so far away from the Glacier. It wasn't safe for one of her blood in these times, to be out and about in the kingdom. But that wasn't her concern. Chlorr turned away and left the great hall of the small king. She came and went as she pleased. The North knew exactly she what she was capable of.

 The Abhorsens, too.

 They had forgotten Clariel but Chlorr of the Mask lived on when they had all died. But who could say how much they would live on. The Charter was weakened. The Abhorsens narrowed down to a father and daughter. It would take little for the line to end entirely.

 Chlorr would wait for now.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you N for your great beta(s) ^^


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